


For Auld Lang Syne

by Lecavayay



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Kisses, M/M, New Year's Eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-04 16:21:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 11,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3074270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lecavayay/pseuds/Lecavayay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In order of timezones-ish (because I’m ridiculous), behold 15 drabbles of some cuties to help ring in 2015. </p>
<p>Beware of sugary sweet fluff, a drizzle of angst, a dash of long distance pining, and a dollop of happy ending (mostly). </p>
<p>All chapters stand alone (except maybe 2 & 3).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tampa: Ben Bishop/Brian Boyle

Everything tastes better after a win, some kind of hockey science has definitely proven that at some point, but Ben never thought the dinner Brian had been stocking up for this whole week would be this _good_.

“Come on, no way. You didn’t cook this.”

“I’m offended you think I cheated.”

Ben shoves another forkful of pasta covered in ridiculous cream sauce into his mouth. “I mean, really. Why is this not something you flaunt? I would’ve made a move way earlier.”

“I'm sorry, you? Make a move?” Brian says from behind his wine glass. “Doubtful.”

“I’d do a lot of things for pasta like this.”

“Oh really?”

Ben laughs at Brian’s dramatic eyebrows, skyrocketing towards his hairline. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach?”

Brian ducks his head, scraping a pile of noodles onto his fork. Ben can see a blush sit high on his cheeks. It’s adorable.

They both reach for their wine and take a long sip.

“What else you got up your sleeve?” Ben asks.

“This isn’t enough?” Brian teases, eyes bright.

He shrugs, “It’s alright.”

Brian gets up from the table, taking both empty plates into the kitchen and returning with the open bottle of wine and a white box that looks perfectly shaped to hold a cake. “You like cheesecake, right?”

He doesn’t wait for Ben to respond, strolling past the table and into the living room. Ben gets up to follow obediently, settling next to him on the couch. One of the New Year’s Eve shows live from Times Square is on.

The cheesecake Brian reveals is gorgeous. Like, almost too pretty to eat. Almost.

“Where did you get this?”

“Would you believe me if I said I made it?”

“Not a chance.”

Brian smiles and holds out a fork. “First bite’s yours.”

It tastes just like Ben thought it would: creamy and sweet and just a little bit tart from the raspberry sauce drizzled all over it. “God, I love you,” he moans around the bite.

“Are you talking to the cake?” Brian asks, cheeks pink again.

Ben realizes what he said, knowing that it's objectively way too soon to be saying things like that, but he can’t take it back. Doesn’t really want to. “I might be a goalie, but I’m not quite that weird.”

“Did you mean it?”

Ben is shocked at the earnest way Brian looks at him. “Would that freak you out?”

Brian’s soft, shy smile takes Ben’s breath away, the way just the corners of his lips twitch up. “No.”

He smiles too, then. “If I kiss you now, we’re going to miss the ball drop.”

“I’m not really that worried about it.”

They meet each other half way, Brian shifting the cheesecake onto the coffee table to gather Ben closer. The kiss is gentle, the kind you see in movies, perfect. Ben runs his fingers through Brian’s hair, tugging at the longer strands behind his ears. He never wants to let go.

Brian pulls away, pressing his forehead against Ben’s. “I love you, too. If that was even a question, I do.”

“I’m going to put the cheesecake away,” Ben says. “But then we’re going to do this properly.”

“In the bedroom?”

“For starters,” Ben says, stealing another kiss.


	2. Tampa: Steven Stamkos/Marty St. Louis

“C’mon Jo, I know we can get you in somewhere,” Cedric says, fresh out of the shower. “It’s New Year’s Eve. We’re going out.”

“Yeah, uh, hang on.” Jo stutters, heading back towards his stall. “You wanna go out? Ceddy and some of the other guys are going,” Jo asks Steven in the next stall over, looking so hopeful.

He shrugs, bent over to tie off his shoe. “I’m probably just heading back to the hotel.”

“Oh, uh, yeah. Should we…should I not go out?”

“No! No, definitely. You should definitely go out.”

Jo tilts his head and Steven knows he can see the sadness. “You shouldn’t be alone on New Year’s.”

“I won’t be.”

And that’s the end of the conversation.

Jo is quick to dress so he can head out with Cedric and the others. Steven takes his time, waiting until almost everyone else has made their leave. It’s almost midnight by the time he finally heads for the hotel, but he’ll make it in time.

_~_

Out of habit, Steven flicks through the channels until he comes across Ryan Seacrest talking to people who look fucking elated to be standing in Times Square with a bunch of other elated people. If he’s being honest, he’s kind of always wanted to be there live to watch the ball drop, as a bucket list sort of thing. Maybe this year more than ever, he’d really love to be one of those people in New York.

The countdown in the corner of the television shows less than three minutes to midnight. He digs out his phone and sets it on the bed so he has a clear view of it. They both had games tonight, both had a lot of games leading up to tonight. They haven’t talked in a while, not properly. Not about this. But Steven knows he won’t forget.

The phone rings with forty-five seconds left.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Steven.”

“Marty, hi,” he says, relieved to hear his voice.

“Good game tonight.”

Steven chuckles. “Are we really going to talk shop?”

“I was just being observant.”

It’s so nice to have this, to be able to have this even with so much distance between them, even for just a few minutes. “I miss you.”

“Every day.”

The television catches his attention. _10, 9, 8…_

“Some day, right?” _5 ,4, 3…_

“Yeah, definitely. Some day.”

“Happy New Year, Marty.” He can hear some fireworks going off, the music playing out of the television, cheers in some room down the hall.

“Happy New Year, Steve.”

_“_ Can you stay on the phone,” he asks. “Just for a little bit?”

“Yeah, I’m right here.”

Steven settles on the bed, holding the phone close against his ear. “Can you hear the fireworks?”

It’s a stupid question, it’s not as if they’re the same fireworks he’s hearing, but something in Steven thinks it can make them feel closer.

“Yeah, every now and then I can see one out my window. Can you see them?”

His window looks straight into another building with nothing but an ally between them. “No, not from my room.”

“There’s, uh, usually a window down at the end right? Maybe you can see them from there.”

Steven heads out into the hall, towards the big window that overlooks the front entrance.

“Any luck?”

A bright burst of color reflects in the glass and Steven smiles. “Yeah, I can see ‘em.”

“I’m going to see you soon, Steven.”

“Not too soon, I hope.”

Marty laughs. “Can we meet in the Conference Finals? How ‘bout I see you there?”

“Yeah, okay.”

Another set of fireworks go off, lighting up the window.

“I gotta go," Marry says, his voice quiet. 

“Yeah,” Steven says. He sounds pathetic even to himself. “I’ll, uh…we’ll talk again. Soon.”  

“You can count on it.”

He holds his breath until Marty hangs up, wanting to say so much more than he’s allowed.

“Stammer?”

He turns away from the window, to the familiar face leaning out of one of the many hotel doors.

“Yeah, I just…had a phone call,” he says, holding up his cell lamely.

“Didn’t feel like going out with the boys?”

He shrugs.

“Yeah, me either,” Cally says, holding out his own phone. “Happy New Year, though.”

“Yeah, you too.” 

 If he stays by the window watching the fireworks a little longer, no one's there to say anything about it. 


	3. Tampa: Jo Drouin/Cedric Paquette

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alcohol is involved, nothing is aggressive. Person A stops when Person B indicates he wants to.

“Come on, one more!” Cedric shouts in Jo’s ear. “One more, it’s almost midnight!”

The bartender lines up the shots, one for each of them, and Jo steels himself not to spit it right back out. He’s drunk, well, maybe not drunk. Buzzed. Warm and loose and happy. It’s the start of another year, even if it is right in the middle of the season, it’s still new. A fresh start.

The liquor goes down smooth.

“That’s my boy!” Cedric keeps yelling, even though he’s draped over Jo’s back. He doesn’t need to yell.

“Where’d everybody else go?”

“The table? We have a table right?”

“They were just _right here_.”

Cedric laughs at him, mouth wide, head tipped back. “You’re drunk in public. In _American_ public.”

“Shhhhh, shut up!”

“Boys! There you are,” Tyler says, slinging arms around their shoulders (as best he can for his height). “C’mon, we’ve got a New Year’s shot to take. One minute!”

They make their way back to the booth tucked in a dark corner. Brightly colored shots are lined up and ready to go.

“What do they taste like?” Jo asks, eyeing an electric blue one.

“Vodka,” Tyler says. “But maybe a little fruity.”

A countdown starts spreading around the bar, fifteen seconds to midnight.

“To the best damn season we’ve ever had!” Tyler shouts, picking a light yellow shot. “And many fucking more!”

Everyone drinks to that as the bar erupts into cheers. It’s 2015.

“C’mon, I have to pee. Come with me,” Cedric says. His breath smells like cherries.

“Yeah, okay.”

Cedric pulls Jo towards the hall that leads to the bathrooms. They don’t get much farther than that when he presses him against the wall and leans in. The kiss is messy and uncoordinated and it takes Jo a few seconds to realize what he should be doing – because he should definitely be doing _something._

And then he realizes he shouldn’t.

“Wait,” he says, pulling back. “Wait, what?”

Cedric looks lost. “I’m sorry? Fuck, are you not…I’m sorry.”

“No! No, I am, I just,” Jo stutters. He’s not sure what he wants to say. “I shouldn’t.”

Cedric moves to stand next to Jo, barely touching him. “Is it…”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck,” he huffs. “I really thought I had a shot, man.”

Jo wants to tell him he still does, that he’d love to keep kissing him, that maybe he could if the situation was different. It’d be a lie.

“Is he worth it? I mean, of course he is. He’s Stamkos. But, he’s good to you, right?”

“Yeah, he’s...yeah.” He thinks maybe he should text him or go back to the hotel, make sure he's okay. Holidays are hard, he's noticed that. 

“Happy New Year, Jo.” Cedric presses a soft kiss to his cheek before heading for the bathroom. 

_Happy New Yr xx_

 

He doesn't get a reply but they're on a line together at practice the next day, which feels pretty much close to perfect when Jo taps in a beauty of a pass from Steven and he smiles.


	4. Carolina: Eric Staal/Jeff Skinner

“Do we have to go out,” Eric moans.

Jeff is already in dark jeans and a shirt that’s way too tight, he’d rather just stay in and peel him right back out of it. “Yes. You promised.”

“Uhg, _why_.”

“Because you like me,” he says, leaning over to plant a kiss on Eric’s mouth.

“You’re exhausting.”

“Put some clothes on. We’re leaving in ten minutes.”

~

The bar is terrible and full of people and Eric is tired. He’s probably been sipping on the same beer for an hour, it’s definitely warm now. Jeff’s happy, his dimples popping out left and right, his lips slick with the shots they all keep taking.

This is what Cam meant when he said “Don’t get involved with the kid.” He knew Eric would end up in a bar on New Year’s Eve sipping warm beer wishing he could just lay Jeff out on the table and suck his brain out through his dick.

“I know that look. Stop making that look. We’re in public.”

“Maybe if you weren’t wearing that shirt, I could think about something else,” Eric hisses.

Jeff just smiles, dimples and all, and gets up to go to the bar.

Eric checks his phone, it’s got to be close to midnight by now. _11:56._ Fuck yes.

“Put that sad, warm beer down. Drink this,” Jeff says, handing him something that smells like a bourbon and coke. “If you look grumpy all the time, your face is going to stick that way. Old man.”

He’s not grumpy. He’s half hard and ready to fuck and go to bed. And he’s not old, _fuck_ him. The mystery drink is delicious, which just toasts his crackers even more.

The bar bristles with excitement as midnight nears, someone starts a countdown. There’s still _thirty_ seconds to go, why are they already counting.

Jeff joins in the counting, their whole table does. Eric refuses.

“Ten, nine, eight,” Jeff says, leaning over to Eric. “Seven, six, five.”

It’s really unfair, since he’s not going to get to kiss him. He’s not going to get to do anything until they’re home.

“Four, three, two, one.”

The bartenders throw heaps of confetti and balloons fall from somewhere, people are shouting and hugging and taking shots. But Eric doesn’t care because Jeff pulls him down by the collar and slams their lips together. In public. In front of a handful of their team (who are whooping and catcalling like the obnoxious creatures they are). In front of anyone who could see and take a picture and post it on the internet.

And it’s not a peck, it’s fully loaded. He groans into Jeff’s mouth when he adds tongue, pushing deeper, wrapping a hand around his neck, digging his fingernails into the skin there.

Jeff pulls back with a smile. “Happy New Year, babe.”

Cam is going to laugh right in his fucking face.

“Yeah. Yeah, for sure.”

“We’re heading out,” Jeff announces to the table. “See you assholes tomorrow.”

Eric can’t form actual words until they’re outside the bar and heading for the car. “What the fuck?”

Jeff laughs. “Surprise?”

“Why now?”

“You never wanted to be a secret,” he says, face falling into serious-talk territory. “But you let me dictate that part of our relationship for years. And now I’m turning over a new leaf. Because I don’t really want to be with anyone but you.”

His words strike Eric dumb, his mouth hanging open like an idiot.

“And you really think I’d wear this shirt if I didn’t think you’d rip it off me? Let’s go.”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Yeah, let’s go.” 


	5. New York: Chris Kreider/Cam Talbot

“You can’t…that’s not enough layers,” Chris says, evaluating Cam’s peacoat and fashion scarf.

“Why?”

“At least put a hat on. I’ll bring a blanket.”

Cam opens and closes his mouth as Chris rushes off to finish collecting things for his “New Year’s Surprise”.

“Take this,” he says, back now with a bottle of champagne and two very fancy looking glasses. “No wait. Put gloves on first, you idiot, and then take it.”

Cam does as he’s told, cradling the bottle like a newborn and hoping he doesn’t drop the glasses. Chris tugs a Ranger’s toque down over his ears and seems satisfied that Cam won’t die the moment they get where ever it is they’re going.

“Okay, c’mon.”

Cam follows him out of the apartment and into the elevator. But instead of going down, Chris presses the top floor.

“What...”

Chris doesn’t reply, just watches the numbers crawl higher. “This way,” he says once they make it all the way up.

Cam follows him until they come to a door marked “Roof Access”.

“No,” he says. “Have you _never_ watched a movie in your life? You’ve _seen_ the Hangover, I know you have. I’m not going out there.”

Chris puts on his best unimpressed face. “I already put a brick up here to prop the door open.”

He does indeed have a brick that props the door open in a sturdy looking way. “Come on, you trust me. Get out here.”

Cam follows him out onto the snowy roof, still clutching the champagne and glasses, because of course he trusts him. Chris unfolds the blanket and wraps one end around his shoulders, offering the other side to Cam

“Give me this.” He takes the bottle and immediately starts working the cork out. The pop startles him, Cam sees him jump a little. It makes him smile.

“Why are we on a roof?” Cam asks as Chris pours them both a glass of bubbly.

“Because.”

“It’s the middle of winter.”

“I told you to dress warm and you didn’t listen.” Chris puts the bottle down and shifts them over, a bit further away from the door and the brick. “What time is it?”

Cam checks his watch. “Two minutes ‘til midnight.”

They shuffle a bit more, moving left and right and then back a little at an angle before Chris is satisfied by their position. “You see it?”

Cam has no idea what he’s looking for.

“Jesus Christ, it’s right there, through those two buildings,” he points vaguely out into the cityscape. “It’s real bright. How are you not seeing it?”

Cam’s nose is really starting to get cold, but he keeps looking, searching the skyline for anything that might be meaningful. And then in the far distance, right between the two buildings Chris had pointed at, something kind of bright and sparkly starts moving. “Is that…”

“Yes!” Chris cheers. “Yes, it is.”

“How in the world did you figure out you could see the Ball from the _roof_ of your apartment building?”

“Joe.”

“Joe?”

“The maintenance guy. I was talking to him right before Christmas when he was fixing the sink and he said that if I was trying to impress my girl on New Year’s, I should take her here.”

“Your girl?”

Chris smiles that dopey smile of his, wrapping his arm around Cam’s waist. “My _best_ girl.”

Cam gives in and kisses him, just a little peck. “Better be your only girl.”

He clinks their glasses together, still smiling. “Quit looking at me, it’s going to disappear below the skyline in a second.”

Cam focuses back on the glittery ball of light far out in the distance, still just bright enough to see. Chris leans his head on Cam’s shoulder, even though they’re the same height.

“Happy New Year, baby,” he mumbles into Cam’s coat.

He presses another kiss into Chris’ hair, right around the place he usually kisses his helmet after a win. “Yeah, Happy New Year.”

The Ball disappears a few seconds before fireworks light up the sky and horns start honking, ringing in 2015. It’s going to be great, Cam thinks.


	6. New York: Henrik Lundqvist/Marc Staal

Marc really hates New Year’s Eve.

When anyone asks him why, he has the most pathetic answer in the history of man: He’s never had anyone to kiss at midnight. But that’s just for starters. One year he had to break up a fight between Jordy and this big beefy guy who thought he had dibs on the girl Jordy had been passionately making out with just moments earlier. He was the one who ended up with the black eye. Another year he was sick with the stomach flu. _Another_ year Eric convinced him to get up on the roof to see the fireworks better and he fell off – he was seven at the time.

So no, he doesn’t really feel like doing anything tonight. But Hank is a whole different story.

Hank loves New Year’s Eve. He thinks it’s classy and festive and a great excuse to get dressed up and drink champagne and be romantic, start the next year off on a great note.

So naturally, when Marc gets home the living room is sparkling with silver and blue decorations, a fire is crackling in the fireplace, and Hank is sprawled on the couch looking absolutely edible in a navy suit.

Marc groans. “I thought I told you not to do all this.”

Hank just smiles and greets Marc at the door, sliding his coat off and hanging it up for him, unwinding his scarf, tugging off his gloves and hat. “Are you hungry? I got sushi from that place we went last week.”

Marc remembers the sushi. It was definitely top three caliber.

“Go sit down, take your shoes off.”

Marc does as he’s told, letting Hank strut around the house in his perfect suit with his perfect hair and perfect face. He returns to the living room with the promised sushi and a bonus bottle of red wine.

“No champagne?”

“This is better.”

After a sip, Marc has to agree. “What kind did you get?” he asks, nodding towards the variety of rolls on the table.

Hank picks up a set of chopsticks (because of course he knows how to use them) and grabs a piece that looks like its got crab in it. “Try it.”

Marc leans forward to pull the sushi into his mouth. “Mmm, yeah. That’s the one I got last time.”

Hank smiles and picks up a piece for himself. “Which one next?”

Marc takes of sip of wine to try and hide the blush that flares on his cheeks at Hank feeding him more. He points to the roll closest to him, covered in those crispy fried bits of whatever that are so good. He opens his mouth and lets Hank place it on his tongue.

“Any good?”

“So good.”

Hank tries one for himself, agrees, and washes it down with wine. “I asked some of the boys why you don’t like New Year’s Eve.”

Marc groans.

“They all tell me the same thing. That you’ve never been kissed at midnight. And I think, well then, you’re going to like it this year.”

“It’s not just that.”

“I know. But, I think to myself, I can take care of all of that. Make it a perfect night.”

“I told you not to worry about it.”

“I worry about you. You should be happy going into a new year, yes?”

Marc shrugs. “Probably. But it’s never mattered before.”

“But now it does. To me,” Hank says, picking another bite for Marc. “I want to make you happy.”

Marc takes the proffered sushi. “You do make me happy.”

Hank smiles. “Are you happy right now?”

The fire is warm, popping and flickering and making all of the shiny new knickknacks glow. The Christmas tree is still up even though they put away most of the other decorations a couple days ago. It’s all very nice, very Hank. “Yeah, of course I’m happy. I’ve got you looking like that in a suit and feeding me sushi on chopsticks.”

“You could learn how to use them and then I wouldn’t have to feed you.”

“Maybe that’s been my plan all along.”

Hank grabs another piece. “Very good plan,” he says, holding it up.

Marc holds Hank’s gaze as he slips the bite from between the chopsticks. He probably looks like an idiot, trying to make eating sushi look sexy, but the darkening of Hank’s eyes tells him he maybe did something right. Or he’s just lucky enough that Hank loves him so much.

“Come here,” he says, waving Hank closer, close enough to wrap a hand around his shoulder and tug him in for a kiss.

Hank opens easily for him, they both taste like wine and rice. It’s warm, just like the fire. Unhurried. And Marc sinks into it, curling his fingers around to brush against Hank’s neck.

“We’re supposed to wait until midnight,” Hank says, still caught in Marc’s hold.

He smiles. “But I want to take you to bed _now_.”

Hank leans in for another kiss, pressing harder this time, more insistent, holding a wide hand against Marc’s lower back. “You drive me crazy.”

Marc slips off the couch, grabbing his wine glass, and heads for the stairs.

 

A few hours later, an alarm goes off, startling them awake. Hank is still wrapped around Marc, arm slung over his hips. He presses a kiss into the base of his neck and then his shoulder.

“It’s midnight, älskling.”

Marc rolls over to face him, still mostly asleep. Hank rubs a thumb across his cheekbone, holding his head so softly.

“Happy New Year,” he says, barely a whisper.

Marc smiles into the kiss that follows.


	7. Philadelphia: Claude Giroux/Danny Briere

They’re all out at a club, one of those fancy ones with a reserved booth and bottle service and really pretty girls. Claude’s not saying he’s drunk, but he’s drunk. 2015 is like, a minute away and everything is good. He’s got his boys and this double shot of Goldschläger and a pretty girl with long brown hair and very little clothing that he’s going to kiss at midnight.

What he doesn’t have is a good fucking hockey season, but there’s still time to change that. New Year’s Resolution number one: Be fucking better.

The DJ cuts the music just in time to count, the whole club alert and waiting. Schenner’s already making out with a stranger, trying to tug her onto his lap. It looks nice. The anticipation inches higher as the count falls to single digits. Claude is standing on the booth, hands up, facing the dance floor, ready.

His phone vibrates in his pocket. And again. And again. It’s a call.

Balloons and streamers and confetti fall from the ceiling and the girl he’d found at the bar earlier looks up at him with big, drunk eyes. He hands her his shot and apologizes as he digs his phone out to see who it is.

It’s Danny.  

Fuck. They haven’t talked to each other in weeks, maybe months. Not since everything went to shit. He should ignore it, send him to voicemail and put his mouth all over the girl next to him.

“I’m sorry, I’ve got to take this,” he slurs at her, before shoving his way out of the booth. “Hello?”

“Claude?”

“Yeah, hang on. Just, lemme get somewhere quiet.”

It’s not easy to push his way out of the club with everyone standing around kissing and singing and being in his way. But Danny’s on the phone. Danny called him. It’s important.

It’s fucking freezing outside.

“Danny?”

“Happy New Year,” he says in French. “I won’t keep you, you sound like you’re having fun.”

“No! I mean, it was fine, but I’d…you called me.” Claude switches to French mid-sentence, easier to think in when he’s drunk.

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

“Yes I do. I’m a stubborn idiot.”

“Yeah, but I’m an asshole.”

“You didn’t mean it.”

Claude did mean it, at the time. He really did. But if he could go back and have the same argument all over again, he wouldn’t say it. He’d just keep his mouth shut and let Danny walk out and maybe still not talk to him for months but he wouldn’t have felt like this. “No, I didn’t.”

Danny doesn’t say anything, Claude checks his phone to make sure the call didn’t drop.

“I miss you, Claude.”

And that’s nice to hear. But with all the alcohol and emotions, it makes Claude want to drop to his knees and cry into Danny’s lap, mumble apologies into his skin until he’s too tired to form words. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry, Danny.”

“I know.”

“G, what the fuck man,” DZ yells from the club’s open door. “We’ve got champagne, get your ass back in here.”

He gives him the finger.

“Go back to your team,” Danny says, calm as always. “Kiss a pretty girl. Maybe we can Skype tomorrow.”

“Yeah, yes," he stutters. "Please.”

They both stay on the line, silent for a moment.

“Be good, mon cher.”

Claude’s breath catches at the endearment, the words warming him up. "Happy New Year."

But he’s too slow to reply, Danny’s already hung up. 


	8. Pittsburgh: Sidney Crosby/Evgeni Malkin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Handwaving the fact that the Pens definitely do have a game on Jan 3rd.

Objectively, the house is always kind of gaudy, and tonight is no different. Sidney knows it’s a big deal for Geno, like Christmas with added fire hazards. So he’s there for support because he’s team and that’s what friends are for.

Like a well-oiled machine, the little cluster of French Canadians have already arrived and broken into the booze. Sid spots Vero talking to Catherine and the Dupuis children are all huddled around the coffee table.

Sid’s armed himself with a bottle of wine Mario once said was good and a gift he’s not so sure about, so he keeps the envelope tucked into his jacket pocket.

“Sid!” Geno shouts, coming out of the kitchen in an apron, arms raised for a hug.

It’s a nice hug, as far as hugs go.

“I didn’t know what to bring,” he says, offering the wine.

“You didn’t need bring anything. Go,” Geno says, shooing him towards the living room. “Food almost done.”

Sid spots Estelle by Flower’s feet, chewing on a toy and looking extremely happy to be there. Tanger’s got Alex in his lap, dressed in a tiny sweater vest and bow tie. It’s so cute it hurts.

“Geno didn’t buy any good beer,” Duper says as Sid settles in. “So it’s wine or vodka.”

“Uh, wine.”

He’s promptly handed a glass and lets Alex crawl across the couch to sit next to him.

“I’m watching you,” Tanger says, getting up for a refill. “I’ll know if you try and steal him.”

He laughs.

“Do you know what he’s cooking?” Flower asks, voice low. “I didn’t know he could cook.”

Sid shrugs. The food, whatever it is, smells really good and the white wine Duper gave him is sweet. It’s all nice. He's not too worried about it. 

“Mama gave recipes,” Geno says, carrying a large platter covered in an assortment of finger foods into the room. “All good. You like. Or don’t say anything.”

Sid watches Geno’s face light up as the kids dive into the food, oohing over it. He takes off the apron to reveal a shirt that fits just right and makes Sid’s mouth go a little dry. The buttons look like they're barely able to stay closed across his chest. Flower catches him staring and smiles his stupid knowing smile.

That’s Sid’s cue to remove himself from the situation.

He doesn’t get far before Geno finds him, holding out a small plate covered in food. “You try. Got one of each. This one best,” he says, holding up something that looks like an open-faced mini-sandwich. “Try.”

Sid takes the bite from between Geno’s fingers. It’s good. Definitely not on any of his nutrition plans, but good.

“You like?” Geno asks.

“It’s great, yeah.” He can feel his face heat and he knows it’s not from the wine, he hasn’t had enough of it. It’s from Geno’s proximity, that dopey look on his face, the big smile.

There’s still hours until midnight. Sid needs to get this shit under control.

~

Estelle and Alex are both long asleep, tucked away with a baby monitor Vero had brought along. Catherine and Tanger are snuggled together on the couch, sipping wine, already sharing kisses. Flower and Vero procured the loveseat a while ago, Vero's legs stretched across his lap. The Dupuis kids have been sharing yawns back and forth for the better part of an hour. Geno broke out the vodka two drinks ago and Sid had taken one out of solidarity.

It’s not a bad way to start a new year, surrounded by team and family. And Geno, who decided to settle down next to him in the chair that’s certainly not made for two hockey players. Duper looks smug.

Sid remembers the gift he brought, still tucked away in his jacket. And then he remembers that Geno mentioned fireworks sometime last week, before Christmas.

“You don’t actually have any fireworks, right?”

Geno laughs. “Have sparklers. Easier.”

That perks the kids right up.

“Yes, yes, okay. I get. We go outside,” he says, heading for the foyer.  

As the minutes click down, everyone lights a sparkler or two and the kids dance around in the icy backyard.

“Happy New Year, Sid,” Geno says, bumping their shoulders together. 

“Happy New Year, Geno.”

When his sparkler burns out, Sid pulls Geno a little bit away from everyone else. “I know this is kind of your Christmas,” he starts, suddenly nervous. “So I got you something.”

Geno’s face falls. “But I’m not get you anything.”

“It’s okay, it’s kind of…just open it.”

Geno takes the envelope and slips it open. He stares at the Steelers tickets, eyes moving left and right and left and right, reading and re-reading.

“They’re for the game Saturday. The playoffs. We’re off so I thought, maybe you’d want to go?”

“Go with you?”

Sid shrugs, trying to stay calm. “Yeah, sure. If you want.”

“Of course, yes. Of course I go with you. No one else.”

Sid thinks Geno’s smile could light up an entire city and he wants to make him this happy all the time, wants to see him smile everyday for the rest of forever.  

“You best, Sid. Best gift.”

Sid’s breath catches when Geno leans in, wrapping him in another perfect hug and planting a soft kiss on his cheek.

“Oi!” Duper shouts at them. “Get over here, it’s midnight. We’re taking pictures.”

It takes Sid a second to put his body into action, to follow Geno back to the group. 

"You make a New Year's wish?" Flower leans in to ask him. 

"No, are you supposed to?" he questions, absently rubbing the place Geno kissed. 

"Can't hurt, right?"

Sid watches Geno get tackled by the kids, rolling around, covered in them like puppies. Yeah, he knows exactly what he'd wish for. 


	9. Montreal: Alex Galchenyuk/Brandon Prust/Brendan Gallagher

Alex shows up pretty much right on schedule. He didn’t bring anything but himself, per Brandon’s orders. He wasn’t sure what to expect, so he dressed somewhere in the middle – a nice sweater and his best dress shoes.

“Look who cleans up nice,” Brandon says, letting him in. “You’re early.”

Alex blushes. “Yeah, I thought, it might be nice before everyone else shows up.”

Brandon was leaning in for a kiss when he stops. “Everyone else?”

“Yeah, the other guys, or whatever.”

“The other guys.”

“For…New Year’s?”

“I didn’t invite anyone else.”

Alex’s face falls. “Oh no.”

“Did _you_ invite someone?”

“Oh no,” he says, fumbling for his phone. “Oh no.”

Brandon laughs. Big, huge, heaving laughs. “Oh my god, you invited Gally didn’t you.”

“I thought, he _asked_ , and I just assumed…I’m so stupid.”

“You are so stupid,” Brandon says, wrapping his hands around Alex’s hips. “But I still like you.”

“There’s still time to make him go away.”

Brandon smiles and then kisses him, soft and slow. “Or, we can start our resolution a day early.”

“What resolution?”

“You know…the reason I got that bigger bed for the guest room?”

“ _Oh_ , that resolution.”

“I’ve probably got enough food for us. Tell him to pick up another bottle of wine,” Brandon says, breaking away towards the kitchen.

“Do you actually have a plan for this? Or are we winging it?” he asks, following.

Brandon shrugs. “I thought you’d like to take the lead.”

Alex’s jaw drops. “No. No, absolutely not.”

“It was your idea,” he counters, checking the chicken in the oven.

“It was not!”

Brandon raises his eyebrows.

“He’s annoying and childish and his stupid smile takes up his whole face when he thinks he’s being funny. He's never funny.”

“And you want to rub your dick all over him.”

“I hate you,” Alex grits out, gripping the countertop for support.

“Tell him to bring wine.”

Alex checks the clock, Gally’s probably already left his house. He’d be a complete asshole to tell him not to come at this point. He’s not even sure he’ll go for it. I mean, it’s Gally, but everyone has their limits.

A pair of knocks is the only warning they get before Gally lets himself in. “Prusty?” he calls. “Am I really the first one here?”

Alex doesn’t know what to say. He’s legitimately standing in the kitchen, speechless, facing a very nicely dressed Brendan Gallagher. He did something with his hair. Alex hates it. 

“Oh good,” Brandon says, tossing down his oven mitts. “I was just telling Chucky we might need more wine.”

Gally hands over the bottle he brought with one of those wide smiles that makes Alex’s stomach swoop a little. “Where is everybody?”

Brandon just smiles at Alex before going to check on the green beans.


	10. Montreal: PK Subban/Carey Price

This is going to work.

PK has been planning and re-planning and making tiny tweaks to his plan since the mistletoe business fell through.

He had hung that shit everywhere. He even brought a sprig with him on the road. By Christmas, the guys knew better than to walk through a doorway with him for fear of being kissed. Carey was particularly careful, he noticed, brooding over in his goalie corner when PK caught someone and had to follow tradition.

Which was unbearable. Because PK wasn’t hanging mistletoe all over the place for fun. He was hanging it all over the place for Carey.

So Plan A failed. Plan B will go much smoother.

It’s five minutes until midnight. Go time.

“Hey, c’mon. Let’s go get shots.” He leans in to say to Carey, making sure his breath hits just below his ear.

“Shouldn’t we wait? It’s almost midnight.”

“Nah, c’mon.” He tugs Carey to standing and pulls him through the crowd.

“You know we’re not going to make it back in time.”

PK scans the bar packed with people. They’re not in the very back of the line, but they’re pretty far back. Perfect. “It’ll be fine. We’ll make it.”

A little white lie never hurt anyone.

“What do you want?” he asks Carey as they inch closer.

“What are you getting? Is there, like, a traditional New Year’s shot?”

“I was thinking Jager.”

“Um, no.”

PK smiles. He remembers the Great Jager Struggle of 2012. And he loves to make sure Carey never, ever forgets.

“Tequila?”

“Even worse.”

“Peppermint schnapps. That’s festive, right?”

“Now you’re just being an asshole.”

The crowd really hasn’t moved much and midnight is definitely just around the corner. Plan B is ace.

“We’ll get you a nice beer. No shots for you,” PK says, clapping Carey on the back.

“Fuck off. I’m taking a shot.”

There’s nothing better than watching Carey get flustered, he can see the vein in his temple working itself up into a tizzy. “Alright, bud.”

“It’s gonna be whiskey, no chaser. If we ever get up to the fucking bar.”

The crowd has gotten restless, a group of girls in front of them are wildly texting on their phones. He sees the clock on one of them flip over to 11:59. Someone starts yelling and getting everyone riled up.

“Should we just go back to the table?” Carey asks.

PK grabs his arm. “You think we can shove our way back now? C’mon, we’ll just stay and bring shots back for everybody.”

Carey looks down at PK’s hand around his arm. It’s skin on skin since he had rolled up the sleeves of his nice button-down a few drinks ago. “Okay.”

Someone starts a countdown. Everything is absolutely spot on.

“Three, two, one, Happy New Year!” the bar shouts.

PK holds Carey’s gaze and leans closer into his personal space. He slides his hand down to Carey’s wrist before rocking up on the balls of his feet to catch his lips in the kiss he’s been waiting for since forever. PK knows it takes Carey by surprise, the way he doesn’t kiss back immediately. But he waits. He waits for the initial burst of panic that someone will see, that the team will make fun of them, that they’ll never live this down. But they’re in the middle of a packed bar where everyone else is kissing and drinking and generally not giving a fuck, so it doesn’t take long for that panic to pass.

Carey surges, wrapping his arm around PK’s shoulder and leaning into the kiss, opening his mouth to take more, go deeper. PK groans, probably not loud enough to hear over the music. It’s really exactly what he wanted.

Until Carey pulls away. “Fuck you.”

It takes a few seconds for PK’s brain to process what just happened and a few seconds more to follow Carey, who is now shoving his way through happy couples to get to the exit.

“Carey, hey, stop, seriously, will you just fucking hold on, Carey!”

Carey gets all the way out to the street, gulping in the frigid Montreal air. PK’s right behind him. “You couldn’t just let it go, could you?” Carey snaps. “You kissed everyone else on the team with that stupid fucking mistletoe. You couldn’t just let it go?”

“Let it go? You’re literally the only reason I did all that.”

Carey straightens, eyes narrowed.

“I didn’t think you’d go for it if I just _asked_ you, so I made a plan.”

“You are such a dumbass.”

PK takes in the sad-dog look currently spread all over Carey’s face. “Wait, you would’ve gone for it if I asked?”

“Yes!” he groans. “And instead I had to sit and watch you put your lips all over everyone el--!”

PK cuts him off with another kiss. “Just shut up,” he says, between pecks. “Shut up, shut up, shut up.”


	11. Chicago: Brad Richards/Vincent Lecavalier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is why it says "mostly" after "happy endings". Skip if you don't want to kill your fluff buzz.

It’s not the first year they’ve been in different time zones. There was that span before the Rangers when Vinny was still in Tampa and Brad was trying to be okay on his own for once. Now he’s not in New York and Vinny’s not in Tampa and it’s weird. Weirder than when Vinny said he was going to be a father, settle down with Caroline, make a family.

Brad kind of always thought they’d do that together. One day. When they were both done with hockey.

But that’s not what happened, so he kept looking. Probably in the wrong places. Trying not to look _back_ and think of all the ways he could have made it work. Turned out, it was difficult to find someone he thought he could love as much as Vinny. Sometimes he’d wonder if Caroline knew all along, but she had to. Everyone knew.

So it was a surprise when Luca was born. Because Brad loves Luca so much more than he’s ever loved Vinny.

“You coming to bed?” Rechelle asks, wrapping her arms around him from behind.

“Yeah,” he says. “I have to make a quick call.”

She smiles and presses a kiss to his shoulder. “It’s your year, isn’t it?”

“Mhmm.”

“Don’t be long. And tell them all I say hi.”

Brad waits until she’s closed the bedroom door and turned off the light. He doesn’t need to, it's not as if there's anything to hide, but old habits die hard. Vinny’s number is one of the few he has memorized and he types it in just to prove he still can.

“Hey, Richie.”

“Hey, Happy New Year.”

“Well, not yet for you. You getting too old for midnight?”

“Some of us have a game tomorrow.”

Brad can hear him smiling. “Lucky you. You gonna wear the face paint?”

“Mmm, I’ll probably leave that to the kids.”

“Aw, c’mon. You’d look good.”

“Better than the playoff beard?”

“Oh no, anything is better than the playoff beard.”

It’s easier to joke like this now. Now that he’s got Luca and Rachelle and some of his love is too busy being spent on them. “I thought I’d grow it out just for the Philly game at the end of March. Get a good base going.”

“That would be awful,” Vinny chirps. “I don’t want my first meeting with Luca to be tainted by that monstrosity.”

“Rachelle liked it.”

“She did not.”

It’s true. She hated every bristly bit. “So, uh, you’re still good with that then? With meeting him? After the game?”

“Absolutely. You can’t back out on me now. Does he like the mobile? Caroline tried so hard to get me not to send it.”

He fucking loves that thing, some nights it’s the only way to put him to sleep. Other nights Brad has to sit in the nursery too, listen to it until he’s calm enough to catch a few hours of rest. “He loves it. I can’t believe you found one that played a lullaby version of the National Anthem.”

“Don’t want him turning out all Australian on us.”

“Next you’ll be sending language tapes to try and make him properly French Canadian.”

“Since you’d be a terrible teacher, yes. I will be sending those along immediately. He can have some of Gabriel's.”

It could have so easily been their son they were talking about, Brad realized. The Canadian proud, bilingual, future little hockey star.

“I can hear you thinking,” Vinny says.

“Did you think it’d end up like this?” he asks, voice quiet enough not to carry down the hall. “Back in Tampa, is this what our future looked like to you?”

“I always knew you’d be okay. However we ended up.”

“I didn’t know, there for a while. I didn’t know if I’d be okay.” He thinks he can see some flurries starting to fall in the glow of the streetlamps. More snow, great.

“You thought you needed me to take care of you back when we were kids, when we met. But you didn’t. You would’ve been just fine without me, Richie. You _are_ fine without me.”

Brad catches the clock on the microwave. It’s 11:59. “Yeah, but maybe I didn’t really ever want to figure that out.”

They don't say anything until clock ticks over. 12:00. 

“Good luck tomorrow,” Vinny says, because they promised never to apologize.

“Thanks,” Brad says, because he hasn't said ‘I love you’ in years.


	12. Chicago: Jonathan Toews/Patrick Kane

They’ve been an old married couple since way before they were ever an _actual_ couple (shut up, Sharpy). They’ve loved each other like an old married couple way before all that, too. (seriously, shut _up_ , Sharpy). So Patrick doesn’t think it’s out of line to want to actually put a ring on it and make it semi-sorta-forever-official.

“He’s gonna love it, Peeks,” Sharpy says, examining the ring.

“You’re being serious?”

“’Course I am. We’ve watched you two dick around each other for years. It’s about time one of you got your head out of your ass.”

“You don’t think it’s too much?”

“Of course it’s too much,” he laughs. “But Tazer’s gonna fucking love it.”

“I hate you,” Patrick says, clamping the ring box closed and slipping it back into his pocket.

 

Three months later, it’s finally New Year’s Eve, which means Patrick’s only got about 12 hours left to grow a pair and propose to the forever-love of his life. Which is kind of a really big time crunch with practice and media and the Classic the next day. Oh god, he’s going to be sick.

Jonny picks that moment to skate over to him. “You okay?”

“What? I’m fine. Totally fine.”

“You look a little sick. You’re not coming down with something are you?”

Patrick can see the panic welling in Jonny’s eyes. “No, I’m fine. Go do something captainly somewhere else.”

He watches him head over to save Crow from Shawsy’s constant babble. He really shouldn’t be this nervous, it’s just Jonny. But then he remembers it’s a once in a lifetime thing, that if he fucks it up, that’s it, that’s how Jonny will always remember his proposal. That’s when the bile starts churning and he really does think he’s going to be sick.

 

“Toes asked me if I thought you were sick,” Sharpy says after practice, halfway out of his gear. “And I have to say, you’re looking a little pale.”

“It’s nothing. Tell him I’m fine. You told him I’m fine, right?”

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with that self-imposed deadline you set for yourself about three months ago, would it?”

“Fuck off.”

“Pat, seriously. It’s _Jonny_.”

“That’s why it’s terrible!”

“What’s terrible?” Jonny asks, butting his nose into a conversation he’s not welcome in.

“Nothing,” Patrick and Sharpy say in unison.

“Well that’s not comforting at all,” he says, shark eyes looking mildly concerned.

“Nothing,” Patrick reaffirms. “Don’t you have interviews to be doing?”

Pat can tell Jonny is not convinced as he heads for the showers. Not even a little.

“Just do it, Peeks. What’s the worst that could happen, eh? You think he’ll say no?”

And, oh god, that’s the least of his worries but it’s totally a possibility. Especially if the proposal is terrible. Which it’s going to be, at this rate.

“For fucks sake, he’s not going to say no!” Sharpy says. “Christ, you two are idiots.”

Patrick can’t even worry about it right now. He’s got a million other things to deal with, starting with hockey and ending with hockey. So, he’s just not going to think about it. Right.

 

“Hey,” Jonny says on their way out of the locker room, finally. “Would you hate it if we stayed in tonight?”

“Not at all, man. You wanna grab some take-out on the way?”

“You pick. Where ever, I don’t care.”

Patrick thinks that's extremely confusing, as Jonny always has something say about where they eat. Mostly something along the lines of “No, that’s a terrible idea, let’s go here instead”.

“Really?” he can’t help asking.

“Yeah, babe. Whatever you want.”

Patrick decides to push his luck. “Barbecue.” Jonny will absolutely never agree to it.

“That place Seabs recommended?” he replies, not even flinching.

“Y-yeah, sounds good.”

Patrick gets in the passenger seat and immediately texts Sharpy. _Are we sure Jonny’s not sick? He’s letting me eat bbq. No bribes._

_Aren’t you supposed to be wooing him tonight?_

Useless. But fuck, he totally is supposed to be wooing Jonny and he just picked the messiest, least-romantic dinner option on the planet.

 

“You’re acting weird,” Patrick says, done with his ribs and massive portion of coleslaw.

“No I’m not.”

“You got a salad from a barbecue restaurant and didn’t bitch at me when I ordered fatty meat on a stick.” He points to the demolished half rack in front of him to solidify his point. “Weird.”

Jonny visibly deflates. “I’m sorry. I just…I wanted tonight to be, I wanted you to have a good night. Because it’s New Year’s Eve and I love you and tomorrow starts an entirely new year and we get to play hockey and I ju--.”

“What the fuck is that,” Patrick interrupts, pointing and the small black box Jonny just fumbled out of his pocket.

Jonny puts it on the table between them. It looks exactly like the box Patrick’s been carrying around with him for over three months. This is not happening.

“I know that, of the two of us, I’m the emotionally stunted one,” Jonny continues, ignoring whatever look is on Patrick’s face. “So I thought, maybe, I should be the one to ask.”

“Fuck you, you dirty overachiever,” Pat says, rushing from the table to dig through his coat hanging by the door. “You couldn’t just _wait_ like, another hour?”

“Another hour? Pat, what?” he asks, following Patrick into the living room.

He’s down on his knee, just like he’s supposed to be, with the little box open to show Jonny exactly _what._ “I’ve had this for months, Jonny. I’ve carried it around in my pocket for fucking _months_ trying to pick a good time, no, the _best_ time to do it. To ask.”

“You cannot blame me for ruining your proposal,” Jonny snaps.

“I most certainly can!”

“You could’ve done it months ago!”

“I didn’t want it to suck!” he yells, snapping the ring box closed and getting up off the ground.

“It never would’ve sucked. No matter what you did,” Jonny says, calmer now, quiet.

Patrick hangs his head. This is unbelievable. “One of us should probably say yes, right?”

“One of us should actually ask first.”

Patrick smiles, and he knows it’s big, huge all over his face. “Marry me?” he shrugs.

“Yeah, I guess,” Jonny smiles back.

 

Four hours and three orgasms (each) later, Pat snuggles deeper against Jonny’s chest, slowly waking up from his second nap of the night. He can see the beginnings of a bruise on Jonny’s collarbone just about in the shape of his mouth.

“Happy New Year, Future-Mr.-Kane,” he says against Jonny’s skin.

“You’re fucking dreaming if you think I’m changing my name, asshole,” he grunts in reply.


	13. Calgary: Brandon Bollig/Andrew Shaw

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter should probably be rated M. So, just letting you know.

_You still up?_

It's late in Chicago, but Shawsy doesn’t sleep much, somehow running on pure excitement or solar power or something, so it isn’t long before he gets a reply.

_Yeah, skype?_

He sets up his laptop in the least awkward position before calling, smiling as soon as he sees Shawsy sprawled out on his bed. He looks so good, almost soft, grining like he’s had too much champagne. Brandon wishes he could touch him, just run his hands all over his skin.

“Hey Bolly,” Shawsy sighs.

“Hey Mutt.”

“S’it 2015 in that dump yet?”

“Yeah,” he laughs. “Just ticked over.”

“Welcome.” Shawsy rubs a hand over his stomach, rucking up his shirt a little. “It’s not too bad, right?"

“How much did you drink tonight?”

“Plenty, asshole. What’re you gonna do about it?”

“I miss you.” He didn’t mean for it to come out so quickly, so blatant.

“Yeah, I wish you were here.”

“You better score tomorrow.”

“Only if you’re watching.”

“’Course I’m watching.”

Shawsy hums, rucking his shirt up even higher. It’s been so fucking long, just the sight of naked skin makes Brandon’s mouth water.

“You gonna take that off?”

Shawsy’s smile is sleazy and he’s slow to move, tugging the shirt up and off. “Better?”

It is much better. “I really want to touch you.”

“Where?”

“Everywhere,” he says, honestly.

Shawsy giggles. “Here?” he asks, rubbing along his chest, over a nipple.

“Yeah.”

“How about here?” His fingers trail down his stomach and over to his hip where they rest, pressing in a little.

“You bruised there?”

“Little bit.”

“Yeah, press harder.”

“Fuck, why aren’t you in my bed?”

Brandon watches him arch up, fingers digging into his hip, lips parted. He can feel his own dick start to swell. “You look so good, Shawsy.”

He turns to the camera, eyes wide. “Tell me what to do.”

“Fingernails,” he says, watching intently. “Down your side. Lemme see the marks.”

Shawsy does it, whining a little as the bright red blossoms on his skin. He does it again without being told, pressing into the bruise on his hip when he gets there.

“How d’you feel?”

“Hard,” he says, angling the camera below his hips. Yes, definitely hard.

“Me too.”

“Lemme see.”

Brandon tilts the screen, stretching out in his chair a little to put his groin on display.

“Mmm, wanna get my mouth all over that. Know how you like my mouth, Bolly.”

“Love your mouth.”

“Get you all wet ‘n sloppy.” One of his hands dips below his bellybutton, rubbing lightly over his sweats, teasing. “Drive you crazy.”

“You’re already driving me crazy,” Brandon grunts.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” he sing-songs, eyes practically glinting with joy. 

“You’re a fucking menace,” he says, quickly trying to work his pants off.

“’M wearing my firework boxers, very festive,” Shawsy says, sitting up to get the rest of his own clothes off. “You’ll like ‘em.”

“Stop hanging out with Kaner.”

“They’re not _American_ fireworks,” he says, stretching back out on the bed in just his celebratory underwear.

“Take ‘em off.”

“Bossy.”

“You like it.”

“Hell yeah, tell me how to touch my dick, Bolly.”

Brandon takes a minute, watching Shawsy lay there waiting for instruction, his cock hard and curved up against his stomach. He touches himself, just a few quick strokes to take the edge off. He's got a plan. He wants to see Shawsy wrecked, tired enough to sleep by the end of it. "You got lube close by? You're gonna need it."

"Oh, fuck," Shawsy mumbles, scrambling off the bed to go find it. 


	14. Dallas: Jamie Benn/Tyler Seguin

Tyler is fucking floored by how good Jamie looks right now, standing at his front door in a suit that looks like god himself sculpted it to his body. It’s unfair. It’s so completely unfair.

“Hey, you ready?” he asks, nonchalant, like he doesn’t know he looks like a million bucks.

“Yeah, let’s roll,” Tyler says, grabbing his suit coat off the back of the couch.

Once they get in the car, Tyler realizes that Jamie smells like more than just his deodorant and usual hair product. The motherfucker put on actual cologne. And it’s making Tyler go out of his mind.

“You gonna make it, Ty? Look a little stressed.”

“Nah man, I’m good.” He can feel his palms getting clammy. What the fuck. He needs to lock this shit down, immediately. And maybe pop the top button of his shirt.

Jamie keeps his eyes on the road and Tyler keeps his eyes on Jaime, unable to stop imagining striping him out of that perfect suit and messing up his hair, marking him up with his mouth. He wonders what sounds he’d make, if there is a certain spot that makes him groan a little louder, somewhere he could lick that’d make him sigh out Tyler’s name…

“You gonna get out?”

“What?”

“Uh, we’re here? C’mon.”

Shit. It’s been a while since he’s gotten lost in his head like that. _Be a professional, Tyler. Be. A. Professional._

It’s slightly easier to ignore the cologne and the tailored suit pants once they get inside. The place is a mix of people he knows and people he doesn’t, everyone's pretty chill. Jamie is quick to put a drink in Tyler’s hand, smells like bourbon.

“What are we supposed to do now?” he asks. The drink is indeed bourbon and deliciously strong.

“Probably take a lot of pictures.”

Tyler chuckles. “Good thing you dressed so nice, eh?”

“You think so?”

“For sure, man.” Tyler watches the red creep up the front of Jamie’s neck, just above his collar. He wonders if his skin is hot, if his lips would feel cold against it.

“Could I get a picture with you? Do you mind?” a very polite woman asks, wiggling her phone a little.

“No problem,” Jamie says, tugging Tyler under his arm. “Lemme hold it, I’ve probably got the longest arms.”

Three tries later, Gina has her perfect picture and heads back toward her group of friends.

“One down,” Jamie smiles.

“Ten bucks says you lose that tie before midnight.”

Jamie, who had been tugging at said tie, shoves his hand deep into his pocket.

 

Tyler thinks the drinks keep getting stronger which means he’s purposefully drinking less of them, trading every other one out for a bottle of water. He’s responsible. Sometimes. He’d lost Jamie half an hour ago but spots him now, leaning against the wall.

“Segs!”

Tyler recognizes the voice and then the beard that’s stalking his way. Jordie’s vest is already unbuttoned, his purple bow tie looking absurd under his ever-growing facial hair.

“We’re doing a shot. A sneaky, little shot. You, me, and the other D-men.”

“What about Jamie?”

“Shhh,” Jordie hushes. “Don’t tell him.”

“Why?” Tyler asks, scrunching his nose.

“He’s being a giant wet blanket.”

“Then maybe a shot would help.”

“ _You_ go try and convince him, then.”

“You sit back and watch the master.” Tyler straightens up to full height and makes his way across the room.

 Jamie has taken to scrolling through his phone. Though it doesn’t look like he’s actually reading anything with the speed he’s going. His tie is still snug against the base of his throat. Tyler grabs it.

“This has got to come off.” He slips two fingers under the knot and slides it lower. He pops the top button of his shirt for good measure.

Jamie’s face is unreadable, his thumb now hovering over his phone’s screen. Frozen.

“It’s suffocating you. Physically and socially. Your brother thinks you’re being, and I quote, a ‘giant wet blanket’.” He adds finger quotations for good measure.

Jamie swallows, jaw clenched. “I am not.”

“Terrible comeback.”

“You can’t win your own bet by forcibly removing my tie yourself, you know.”

Tyler had forgotten the bet, momentarily. It startles him into thinking about forcibly removing other items of Jamie’s current wardrobe. “I did nothing. You’re still wearing it.”

“It’s really fucking awful,” he says, loosening it a little more.

“There’s still forty-five minutes to midnight. You could just give in and hand me over the money.”

“I never agreed to the bet. I’m not paying you shit.”

“Aw, don’t be a sore loser.”

“Go do a shot with my brother and leave me alone,” he says, no heat to his words.

“You find me at midnight though. And that tie better be gone.”

 

So Tyler and Jordie and some of the other guys and some very nice strangers take a shot. And then another one. And one more just before midnight because it’s New Year’s Eve. Tyler’s totally back to being buzzed. He needs a water and maybe a Gatorade.

“You seen Jamie?” he asks no one in particular.

“Probably still holding up the wall,” Jordie says. “Or he’s gotten sucked into a conversation he’s desperately trying to escape from.”

“Okay, thanks.”

He heads for the wall but gets derailed halfway and heads for the bathroom instead. He doesn’t want to spend the first moments of 2015 pissing into a urinal. Better to go now.

He’s put off course again by Jamie with his shirt buttons open way down his chest and the black tie he was wearing balled up in his hand. He still smells delicious.

“Ha!”

Jamie flushes down all that fresh, new skin. “Yeah, you win.”

“Fuck yeah,” he says, snatching the tie out of his hand. “I knew you couldn’t last.”

“You just wanted me to take my clothes off.”

He did. “I did.”

“You could’ve just asked.”

Tyler squints in confusion. “Say that again?”

Jamie doesn’t respond. Instead, he closes the space between them, reaching up to cup Tyler’s face in his big, big hands. Someone blows a noisemaker and there’s some white noise that sounds like the fans at a game. Tyler really doesn’t care much.

“Happy New Year, Ty.”

Jamie’s lips are soft against Tyler’s, like really fucking soft. And warm and gentle and moving so slowly. Tyler realizes he’s hesitant, maybe afraid of what the reaction will be. He fixes that immediately, pressing harder into the kiss, wrapping an arm around Jamie’s back and pulling deeper, opening his mouth wider, asking for it.

He wants to beg, to feel Jamie’s lips everywhere, but he narrowly remembers they’re in public. “Oh my god,” he says, pulling away. “Jamie, oh my god.”

“I’m sorry, I thought, you said to find you, so I thought that meant...”

Tyler rocks up to catch his mouth again, silencing him. “Shut up and take me home,” he says against his lips.

Jamie pulls back. “What? It’s barely after midnight.”

“Home.” Tyler puts his stubborn face on. Fuck Jamie. He doesn’t get to kiss him and then tease him for another two hours. “Right now.”

It takes Jamie exactly 24 seconds to get with the program. Tyler watches his eyes darken, pupils widening to eclipse the brown. “I’m going to say bye to Jordie. You go start the car.”

He shoves his keys against Tyler’s chest and makes a beeline for the bar. This is going to be the _best_ New Year’s ever.


	15. Vancouver: Eddie Lack/Roberto Luongo

Eddie doesn’t really feel like going out. It’s not that he’s in a bad mood or sick or hurt or pissed that they lost a game he should’ve won for them. He just feels a little lonely. A lot lonely. Maybe that puts him in a bit of a bad mood.

But unfortunately he’s already out and settled into the booth with some of the other guys who are happy and excited for the new year. 2015. A year better than the last.

And maybe it will be, he’s always been one for a little optimism, the power of positive thinking and all that. There’s still half a hockey season left and that’s always a good place to start.

“You gonna finish that?”

Eddie looks at his beer, still full save for a few sips he took maybe half an hour ago. He shrugs.

“Come on, Stork. Loosen up a little!”

And he had tried, earlier. He drank his first beer fast, hoping some of it might find its way to his head. The second one, still sitting on the table, didn’t go down as quick.

The guys meant well, in their various states of intoxication, but he just wasn’t feeling it. “I think I might just head out.”

Three or four shouts of “But it’s not even midnight!” weren’t enough to make him stay.

“I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

If Eddie was being honest with himself, he knew exactly why he felt the way he did. Why everything felt a little dull. It was because last year he had Lu. He had Lu to laugh with and make proud and wrap himself around at the end of a long day. He had Lu and now he doesn’t.

It’s been almost ten months and the distance between them hasn’t started to feel any better. Lu said it would, that eventually they’d get the hang of different time zones and different teams and different routines.

Eddie hasn’t. They don’t text much anymore, the distance really putting a damper on things with practice and games and making sure he wasn’t going wake him up from a nap or missing a call because media ran late. As much as they tried, it seemed to get more and more difficult.

It was already well after 2am in Florida.

Eddie scrolled through his text messages, finding Lu’s name down after most of his teammates and a girl one of the guys tried to set him up with last month, just before Christmas.

_Happy New Year_

He debated the punctuation (a period, an exclamation point, two exclamation points, a pair of x’s, a pair of x’s and o’s) and went with nothing. Lu probably wouldn’t check it until late the next morning, maybe wouldn’t respond until after he worked out, maybe wouldn’t respond at all if he got doing other things.

He was almost home when his phone chimed. And then chimed again.

_Happy New Year, Eddie._

_Wish you were here._

He could’ve cried at the stupid little palm tree icon at the end of the second text.

_What ru doing up so late?_

He stayed in his car, parked and turned off in his driveway, holding his breath.

_Hoping to hear from you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all she wrote! Thank you so much for anyone and everyone who has read/left kudos/commented, you rock and make me smile. Happy 2015!!!


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